Too Damn Cool For School

Just when I was getting all excited about my remodeled kitchen, I hit a wall.

That's right.  A wall hit me smack in the face.  We had a dinner guest last night and he is about the least picky guy I have ever known.  Nelson used to be my next door neighbor and now he's my bestie!  He is never critical of me or anything I do.  (I love that in a man.)

There are a couple of things queued to be done in the kitchen.  We are waiting for the delivery of my 'POSH" island and for my contractor, Guy, do put in the stove hood and some cabinets around the stove.  No biggie, right

We invited Nelson to dinner last night.  I had home made turkey soup and a salad with a fresh loaf of French bread.  Alex wanted us to eat in the kitchen after Nel helped him move the existing Cost Plus island out into the backyard until we decide what to do with it.

Alex left on a two week trip this morning to the East Coast.  The island is solid wood and weighs about 1 million pounds so I was not about to try and help him move it.  The POSH island is supposed to arrive next week after fabrication in France, Italy or Turkey or somewhere equally POSH. 

Anyhoo, Alex pulled out a "card table" and stuck it in the middle of our now fairly bare kitchen and we had dinner there last night.  It was the ugliest thing I've ever seen.  It still is. Even Nelson looked horrified!

But, I have to have a place to stick things.  I am just resigned to realizing my kitchen is not too cool for school yet.

Working Men

 I admit it.  I am a sucker for a pretty face.

I've never found suit and tie men particularly attractive.  I like a guy who is not afraid to get his hands dirty.  I also love men who work hard at physical labor to support their family.  I find that extremely attractive!

I also am partial to Mexican men.  They are almost without exception good looking and courteous.

I first met Edgar and Omar when they showed up almost an hour late to powerwash my house four weeks ago.  I had been dealing with electricians, interior painters, color consultants, appliance deliveries, and a wide breadth of contractors who either showed up late or not at all.  I was fuming when I went out to talk to the guys and yell at them for being late.

Edgar, the guy in the top photo, just laughed as I raged at his brother, Omar, (middle of bottom photo).  Omar was trying to explain that a piece of equipment had been broken and had to be replaced and that he was sorry.  I ranted for a couple more minutes until Edgar's good humor had me laughing too. 

I asked the painters, "Are you guys Mexican?" and they replied that they were.  I told them I am Mexican too, and they seemed a bit surprised.  To me, this sealed the deal.  From that moment on, these young Mexican men were more family than strangers.

Two more guys, Antonio and Luis, came to join them a couple of days later.  They were both very nice too.  These guys worked their butts off from 8:00 AM to 7:00 PM, scraping and patching this old house to get it ready for painting.  They all wore what looked like Hazmat suits and masks because this is dirty hard and dangerous work.  After the scaffolding went up, the men would perform high wire acts outside the windows of our two story (with full basement) home.  They flew up the side of the house like Spiderman!

Their radios played from 8:00 AM until night time and I listened to Mexican music while the guys sometimes sang along.  I loved that they seemed to work so well together and there was a good deal of laughing as they toiled.

On Fridays and Saturdays, after they had worked for about 11 hours, we brought them a twelve pack of beer.  They sat in the backyard, sometimes with a little television on and watched their beloved soccer while drinking Coronas and talking.  (We later found out they actually enjoyed Belgium beer even more and so we switched it up.)  After the first couple of times, Alex and I joined them for a drink before they packed up for the night.

Initially, I had worried a little that Edgar and Luis (lower photo, far right) might be under age, but then when I questioned them, Edgar is 27 and Luis is 24.  So I wasn't breaking the law after all.

After four weeks, the painting is complete.  We are delighted with the marvelous job these guys did in painting the outside of this 1880 Victorian home.  They were meticulous and professional.  They were funny and charming. 

And yes, they were a treat for my eyes too! 

I Am So Fancy!

Now, in two weeks, I can present to you heart shaped ice cubes from my new fancy refrigerator on top of a new black granite countertop.

By that time, I should have the kitchen paint completed, the new oiled bronze pulls and knobs on the cabinets, and the new sink installed.  For that matter, by that time I should have the painting of the exterior of our house completed too.

The painters had scaffolding put up today.  That was nerve wracking.  The painters have sealed my windows from the outside today.  That was nerve wracking too.

I have about ten Mexican house painters working from about 7:30 AM until 6:30 PM.  The job is two weeks behind schedule and if they could work overnight, I think they would.  (This work needs to be done before the rains start.)  This schedule is nerve wracking too.

My inside the house contractor didn't show up today.  Guy is wonderful, but I don't always understand him on the telephone because of his Chinese accent.  I think he told me he would come tomorrow.  I hope he does because having my kitchen "gone" is nerve wracking too. 

I think I broke my little toe when I stubbed it on painting equipment a couple of days ago.  I don't need to tell you how I feel about this development.

Guy is currently painting the kitchen a lovely shade called "Pale Green Tea" made by a company called Mythic Paints.  They are a "green" company, or as Alex calls it "Obama Paint".  I just hope the greenie paint covers as well as the poison paint.

This "Pale Green Tea" is not green paint.  Well, it's actually more yellow than green, but so is "Weak Green Tea" but that wouldn't have the same ring to it, would it?  A girlfriend (interior designer) had recommended that I paint the kitchen "Chai Latte", and I loved the name, but alas, did not love the slightly orangey color.  Now she's upset because I didn't take her advice.  Oh well. 

I find that all the home improvements are giving me anxiety issues.  I hate chaos with a passion.  To calm down, I think I'll go pour some tequila over my heart shaped ice cubes.

Cheers!

The Beautiful People Toilet

You may already know, I'm having some remodeling done.  We have a new floor, new paint, a new sink and a new toilet in one of our bathrooms.

We bought a toilet from Home Depot and on the way home, I told Alex I wanted to drop by the Jack London Kitchen and Bath showroom just to get some ideas.

When we walked in, there were about 15 toilets right near the entry, all of them rather upscale looking.  There was a sign that said "All Display Toilets $100".  Well, goodness me!

We had just paid about $200 at Home Depot for a toilet.  This was a much better deal.  Alex wanted a rather squared off looking toilet and I agreed that it was nice.  It turns out this is actually a $700 toilet.

I never imagined such an expensive toilet even existed.  I mean really!  Isn't a toilet just a toilet?  Yeah, this was "stylish", but I had never even considered a "stylish" toilet.  Go figure.

So after owning the Home Depot toilet for about a half hour, Alex returned it to the store.  The sales clerk seemed surprised that he was returning a toilet after a half hour.  He said she looked at him suspiciously.  (I think he's paranoid.)

Since I don't spend a lot of time thinking about toilets (at least until now), it never occurred to me that this toilet's dimensions might not be the same as our previous toilet which was sadly somewhat broken.  After Guy, my contractor, installed the toilet, he called me in and told me that it was too close to the wall.  Apparently, the toilet was larger than the one we were discarding.

Since the hole in the floor for the toilet was there already, there really wasn't much that could be done.  I went over and sat on the toilet and said, "Well, it's fine for me!"  Guy agreed, but added, "Not a place for big people though," and he was right.

When Alex arrived home, I pointed out the problem to him and in his usual optimistic way he said, "Well, we'll just tell everyone this toilet is only for the beautiful people!"

Cheating On Guy

Guy is our contractor.  He's been our contractor for about 12 years.  I adore him.

He's a perfectionist.  He never cuts corners.  He's ethical and fair with his prices.

Guy has rebuilt a porch for us.  Guy has built out a pantry for us.  He is dependable and takes pride in his work.

Alas, my cheating ways have put a crack in this relationship.

Guy is so good that he has become very busy.  Unfortunately for us, he now has to put us off because of his busy schedule.  I really don't like being pushed back after other clients.  It makes me nervous to have projects lined up and no end really in sight for some of them.

We need a dedicated power line for our new refrigerator and a new outlet put in.  I cannot wait any longer, so I called an electrician who is going to do the work for us.  I tried to time the appointment with the electrician so it would be after Guy had left for the day after working on our bath remodel.

As luck would have it, the electrician came early, and Guy was leaving late.  The look Guy had on his face when he saw another contractor made me feel like a cheating slut.  Guy looked so betrayed and  I felt such remorse and shame.  I felt worse than if my husband had walked in to find me in bed with another man.  That is how bad I felt.

I tried to explain to Guy that it was only an electrical outlet, but that didn't take away the sting.  He was so hurt.  I felt like a total sleazy slut.

Then to show how truly rotten I am, later that afternoon, I hired another painter to come in and paint the bathroom that Guy had remodeled.  (I'm lying to Guy and telling him that Alex did the painting.)  I feel bad about this lie too, because I very seldom tell a lie.

You know, unless I really have to.

Amazing Grace Used To Be My Middle Name

This is a photo of my new Summit refrigerator.  It's pretty sleek.  I like it and I'm very glad it's now gracing my kitchen.

I had some trepidation over this purchase as I did not receive the refrigerator until 25 days after I had ordered and paid for it. 

I made numerous attempts to find out where it was, had it shipped, etc., but was told over and over again, "It's gonna ship tomorrow."  Three times I tried to cancel the order in frustration.  The seller ignored my cancellation request and told me, "It's gonna ship tomorrow."

I think having nerve damage in my hand has caused me to have less patience than I used to have.  I was seriously angry over this delay, but then a lot of things have been delayed a bit recently.

I ordered a gorgeous kitchen island from Williams Sonoma.  I got an email yesterday saying the island had been delayed and would not ship until the week of December 2nd.  I was expecting it in mid-October.

My contractor told us last week that he couldn't start work on our projects until October.  We are putting in new granite counter-tops in the kitchen and having it repainted.  I've chosen a lovely paint color called "Chai Latte" for the walls, and "Princess Ivory" for the trim and cabinets.  I'm sick of the avocado walls.  I'm trying to figure out how to get a copper back-splash but I'm not really well versed on what that entails.  Baby steps.

Fortunately, we did get hardwood floors put in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, but so far, that's the only thing that has happened on time.

We are scheduled to have the exterior of our house painted on October 1st.  (The painting contractor has already told us, that's going to be "put out a bit" because of over-scheduling on his part.)  Uh huh.  Well, what else can go wrong? 

Meanwhile, hand is still giving me fits.  I do think the physical therapy thing will help, but I'm beginning to worry that I'll never go back to "normal".  The pain is really strange and it's getting really boring.  I have sharp pains that make me squeal when I move my fingers, sudden itching that feels like my hand is stuck in some poison oak, and hot throbbing.  All that sounds a bit sexy I know, but it's really not.

Maybe I'll start taking those morphine milkshakes after all. 

The Good, The Bad, And The Damn It!

It all began on July 25th.  I was doing some gardening and tripped over a dog toy which sent me crashing face first into concrete.

As I thought to myself "Self, you've really done it this time", I realized that my left hand was turned in a really weird and painful way!  Shoot!  (Yeah, that's not the word I used.)  I got to my feet and stumbled into the house and looked in the mirror.  Shoot!  (Again, that's not the word I used!)  My nose was bloody and shoved to the side, my mouth was bleeding from where my front teeth had cut into my lip, and my eyes were rapidly turning black.  Oh shoot!  (Right!)

I called my doting husband and asked him to come home and take me to the ER.  I stuck ice packs on my face and hand and spent the time hoping for the best.

The hospital asked me if I was a victim of domestic violence, and I assured them that I was merely a victim of clumsiness and stupidity.  My face would heal, I was assured, but my hand was fractured.  Shoot!  (Damnation!)

Being a vain bitch, the face sort of bothered me.  It did look like I had been busted in the mouth and nose by an abusive lover.  (Most of my lovers would have hesitated to hit me because I am actually a good shot.)

After 5 weeks in a cast, I was actually beginning to feel more pain, not less, in my hand.  I visited the doctor yesterday who told me that while my bones had healed, I now had nerve damage in my hand that was causing the swelling and pain.  Oh shoot!  I'm set up with a physical therapist on Friday so I'm counting on that helping.  My hand looks sort of like a monster movie, all swollen and shiny and collapsed in certain areas.  The doctor told me he could recommend me to a pain clinic, but I really don't want to go around sticking morphine patches on myself for the rest of my life so I'll wait a while for that.

Now, what really pisses me off is that I got a call from American Express this morning asking me if I had made a $300 purchase at a supermarket in New York within the last hour.  I assured the agent that I had not.  Apparently, my credit card had been "cloned" and used today.  Fortunately, we may have caught it before any real damage was done.  Shit!  That's good news!  (Yeah, I mean "Shoot"!)

Bones and Bewildement

About 3 weeks ago, I fell face first on to concrete while working in the garden.

My split lip and puffed nose and black eyes have healed up pretty much.  My fractured metacarpal bones in my hand will take longer.

Using a keyboard with one hand is very hard for me.  As soon as this gets better I will be back to explain how it all happened, and the things I have learned since my accident.

Yes bras can be put on with one hand if you slide them up already fastened over your feet and up your legs.  The only problem I can see is that if my butt gets any bigger at all, this will not be an option.

Woe is me!  But I will be back!

But What Do You DO All Day?

I admit it.  I'm lazy.

Now I'm not always lazy.  People who know me know that my house is always pretty presentable.

My husband and I very seldom have to turn our underwear inside out because I neglected to do laundry.

My yard is pretty well-tended.  And I am a fairly decent cook.  I also make time for quality time with my dogs.  They are both walked, played with, bathed and brushed regularly.

Sheets are changed on all four beds once a week.  I keep up on current events, have lunch with friends, and follow my favorite sports teams. 

On a more personal level, I have my hair cut once a month and get manicures and pedicures weekly.  I enjoy long bubble baths daily.  I also do a little shopping from time to time.  And I attend mass regularly.  (Okay, that's a lie.  I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

I take care of my husband's clothing.  I plan meals.  I rearrange furniture.  I visit with neighbors.  I talk on the phone, listen to music,  and spend time on the internet.  I peruse ebay for "deals" and craig's list for "chance encounters". 

Late afternoons, I tend to sit in my kitchen with my feet propped up and either watch television or read.  This gives me an hour or two of "me" time every day. Sometimes I watch CNN, but sometimes I watch reality shows.  I seldom concentrate on either, but it's background noise and I find it relaxes me. 

When Alex gets home from work, it's back to the treadmill.  Feed the dogs.  Walk the dogs.  Fix dinner, do dishes, discuss our respective days.

Alex asked me one time "Why don't you go and work with deaf kids or something?"  (Yes, from the film "Scarface".) 

No wonder I feel tired.

The Problem With Profiling

White men have sexually harassed me on public transportation.  Most of these men have been fairly young.  More than one young white male has rubbed his erect penis against me on crowded buses.  Twice, white men have exposed themselves to me. Still I do not expect that all young white men are going to sexually assault me.

We know that people from the Middle East have committed terrorist acts.  So have people from all parts of the world including Europe and the United States. I know a lot of people from the Middle East and I can assure you that they are not terrorists.

Young black men do commit crimes.  (Men, young and old, and of every race commit crimes.  So do women.)  But I really don't believe that most people are criminals.

I know some gay people are pedophiles.  It happens in the straight community as well.  I had many straight men behave inappropriately with me when I was under 18.  I never had a gay woman behave inappropriately with me when I was a teen.

Some Mexicans are here in the US illegally.  Some are also criminals.  Most Mexicans are here in the US quite legally and are not criminals.

My black gay girlfriend was talking to another friend of mine, a Mexican contractor, this week.  They were both carrying on about Chinese landlords and how terrible they are.  I have had Chinese landlords and found them to be just fine.  (Alex and I would not have been able to buy our first house if our wonderful Chinese landlord hadn't helped us by loaning us money for the down payment.) 

I think listening to my friends talk about how tight with money, what bad drivers, how superstitious Chinese people are really made me think.  Here are two people, a black gay woman, and a young Mexican man and I would figure that they would both realize how wrong and ridiculous profiling is.  Obviously, I expect too much.

Profiling is wrong and dangerous.  Someone innocent could end up dead.  Wait.  Someone innocent did end up dead.

This Is So Not My Happy Face!

You do not want to see this expression on my face.

What follows can be really ugly.  I don't "lose it" very often, but when I do, it is far from pretty.

Even my dog, Crazy Zoe, knows to cower if she sees me giving her this face.  She instantly drops to the ground and quivers.

See that solemn expression can turn ugly in a heart beat.  When it turns ugly, man and beast better grab their shit and run.  You can generally tell I'm not happy when my lip starts to curl up and my eyes get hinky.

On Sunday night, we took Ziva and M back to their hotel in San Francisco after dinner.  I had pushed a large bag of plums into their hands as they were leaving our house.  In San Francisco, Alex parked in front of their hotel and we all got out of the car to say our goodbyes.

I was hugging Ziva and on the verge of tears because she was leaving.  A big stoned and dirty homeless man was bothering Alex and M.  I saw Alex put some change in his cup.  The homeless guy was being obnoxious and telling M to "Give me some of them plums."  I really didn't want that man to touch any of us or our belongings.  I took the bag of plums from M, opened it, and took out one plum.  I gave it to the homeless man who immediately shouted "Naw, I want two plums."

A slight explosion went off in my head.  I was going to cause great bodily harm to this belligerent son of a bitch if he didn't get the hell away from us right that moment.  I saw Alex get really tense out of the corner of my eye.  I saw Ziva look a little nervous too.  I was ready to go all  ghetto on this man.  I was within two seconds of taking off my stiletto and shoving the heel up the guy's ass.

San Francisco has more than its share of homeless.  Most of the people are polite in their requests for some help.  I usually dig in my purse for change or for a dollar.  I have given a lot of money to homeless people over the years.  Sometimes I smile vaguely and say "sorry" as I walk on past.  Most of the homeless population are polite even if I don't "help them out".  They tell me to have a nice day or say "God bless you." and as far as I'm concerned, that's fine.

But having some angry jacked up mofo trying to scare and intimidate young visitors sent me into a rage.  I shook with anger half the way home.  I'm very glad I didn't have some kind of a weapon because I would have sprayed pepper spray in that dude's face so fast it would have made his head spin.

I love San Francisco.  I hate seeing people foul the City's image and reputation.  If this was an isolated case it wouldn't have made me so angry, but it happens all the time.  The City needs to take a close look at how detrimental the "tolerant" policy can be when it comes to aggressive panhandlers.

Fortunately, the homeless man was not so far gone that he ignored the warning I gave him.  He moved on.  Good thing too.  I was ready to puncture him with my stiletto shoe.

The Blue Glass Box

As the crow flies, she traveled about 5,363 miles to get here.  Of course, we all know that airline travel is never really "as the crow flies".

The trip from Turku, Finland to San Francisco, California took almost 24 hours.  

I met Ziva several years ago when I discovered her blog, "Ziva's Inferno". I was dazzled by her intellect and her writing talent.  Ziva has almost a magical quality to her rhetoric as well as a wicked sense of humor.  She's sophisticated, witty, and sometimes a little bit naughty.  What's not to like!

I knew Ziva's (then) partner "M" traveled to the US on business once in a while, and I begged Ziva to make the trip with him.

I was thrilled and shocked when I got an email from Ziva saying she would be in San Francisco a couple of days ago.  We set a date for Sunday evening to have dinner.  Alex and I both decided to bring Ziva and M here to our home, rather than just meeting them in the City at a Bistro.  (When I'm traveling, I get very tired of dining out and long for something "home cooked".)  Alex decided he would make his famous Shrimp Creole for dinner and I would contribute a wilted spinach salad.  (And, of course, chocolate torte for dessert!)

We drove to the City to pick Ziva and M up at their downtown hotel.  They were waiting for us out front when we arrived.  I was thrilled to finally meet this gorgeous young woman and her now husband M.  By the way, they are both exquisitely beautiful and they make a perfect couple!  M is auburn haired with sparkly eyes and a wonderful smile.  Ziva has almost waist -ength shiny tresses and looks like a movie star with a smile that makes your heart lurch!  Wow! 

Before I met Ziva, I never really thought about Finland one way or the other.  Now I'm wondering how soon I could get there!  We had a fantastic evening and the dinner was lovely.  I was delighted that both Ziva and M are 'dog friendly' and Zoe had an almost pathological penchant for Ziva.  We had to push Zoe away several times to keep her from showing so much sloppy affection to Ziva.

Unfortunately, the evening had to come to a close much too early.  Alex had to work this morning so we took Ziva and M back to their hotel about 9:30 so that Alex could get some sleep.  Before they left, Ziva gave me a gorgeous blue glass box.  It really is a special piece.  I knew immediately that I wanted to put my pearls in that gorgeous blue box.  Now I have one place to go for two of my most precious "things".

Not to be remiss, I must add that Ziva and M also brought us little boxes of wonderful Finnish candy.  Now, I had heard from a number of well respected sources that this Fin candy was "different".  I actually liked it!

After leaving the couple off at their hotel, I had tears in my eyes.  I hate it when people I love leave me.  I know they'll be back one day, but it hurts none the less.  We had given M a bobble head doll of Ryan Vogelsong (a San Francisco Giant's pitcher), and a big plastic bag of plums that had just been picked off our plum tree.  I wish I could have given them the ability to stay with us for a longer time.

Alas, with Ziva, a longer time would never be enough.  She's the kind of girl you can never let go of completely.  The glow of her is still in my heart and always will be.

Tricks For Screwy Teeth

Okay, my teeth are fine now. 

But, there is a trick to use if you ever have the kind of problem I did with my Bugs Bunny temporary veneers. 

This trick also works like a charm if you have red or swollen eyes. 

Are you ready?

Girls, show some bosoms!  Nobody even looks at your teeth or eyes if you are flashing a bit of bosom.  This trick is also good for bad hair days, pimples on your nose, or even if you have crossed eyes.  Believe me, the guy at the store won't be wondering about the pimple on the end of your nose when you are at the check out counter.  He will never notice that your teeth look like those of a seriously deranged rabbit.

My dentist yesterday seemed surprised that I had been concerned and unhappy about my very long, to the right slanted front teeth for 10 days.  She said, "I thought they looked fine."  (Never trust a dentist to tell you the truth.)  The dentist also told me that the porcelain veneers would look perfect.  (I didn't trust her with that one either.)  Much to my surprise, (and delight), that part was true.  They do look fine.  The color is perfect as it matches all my natural teeth.  One of my fears is that I would have two snowy white chicklets replacing my two front teeth.

I have had a recurring nightmare for years.  I'm out somewhere in public and I bite into an apple.  My two front teeth come out in the apple.  There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  I'm horrified realizing that my teeth are just "gone".  As a result of this dream, I make sure to never eat apples in public, okay I don't eat apples at all now. 

Apples are bad in a lot of ways.  Look at Adam and Eve.  If it hadn't been for an apple, we'd all be running around naked in the Garden of Eden being pain free and happy all the time.  This all sounded a bit strange to me actually.  If it was true about Adam and Eve and the Snake and the apple, why isn't the first commandment "Thou shalt not eat apples"?

Now all I have to do is pray I don't lose these veneers in my sleep and swallow them.  I really can't afford to do that.

Nor can I afford to buy a bunch of new low cut sweaters.

A Little Long In The Tooth (Literally)

I had a bad day.

Last Wednesday, I bit into something and chipped one of my front teeth.  I made an appointment for the dentist that afternoon, not wanting to wait and make it worse.

My dentist is a lovely young Vietnamese woman.  She fixed me up like new (actually better than new), but she also admonished me that my two front teeth were "worn" and they would continue to chip unless we did something about them.

I was curious about what she recommended because she had at one point tried to steer me toward veneers.  I had been fairly clear that I really had no interest in what she called "a movie star smile".  (To me, the overly white and perfect teeth look like chicklets.)  My dentist again mentioned veneers made of porcelain and assured me she could match my existing natural teeth in color.  This would be a very simple process and would solve my problem of thin and worn front teeth.  I thought about it for a moment and said, "All right!  Let's do it." 

I went in last Friday and she made a mold (ugh) of my teeth and the proceeded to file the teeth down to about half of their normal length.  This required that I get a shot to numb me and I really didn't expect the shot either.  (This was a simple procedure, right?)  When I saw that the teeth were now munchkin sized, I got a little scared but she assured me that she would make me some temporary veneers until the real ones got back from the lab in about 10 days.

There was another mold taking event that included acrylic stuff that hardened too much in my mouth, got stuck,  and had to be chipped out.  By this time, I am not much of a happy camper.  My dentist was sweating and swearing in Vietnamese by this time because the mold goo and acrylic didn't want to come off my teeth.  I was going into full blown panic attack mode.  She tried to reassure me by saying "Oh this is nothing!", but I was far from reassured.  I could visualize the real teeth breaking off completely with the chips of acrylic. 

Finally, she got the stuff off my teeth and she announces she has to make another mold.  I asked her if I couldn't just go with the munchkin teeth for two weeks and she said no.

The two hour process was finally over I thought.  I sat up and she handed me a mirror.  I had two big bunny teeth, about twice as long as my original teeth staring back at me in the mirror!  I started laughing (but it was a bit hysterically).  She asked me if they were too long and I snorted saying "Are you kidding?  Look at these things!".  (I think my laughing scared her a little bit!)  She said, "Yeah, they looked shorter when you were lying down.)  I was sputtering with laughter and thinking I was going to wet my pants.

The dentist filed the teeth down a little and said "How about now?".  I took a look and said "Great!" although they were far from great.  I now had two long chicklet teeth that both slanted slightly to the right.  (My original teeth were not crooked.)  I asked her if the veneers would look better than this and she swore that they would.  I simply couldn't stand one more minute in the dentist's chair so I said they were fine.

I got home and showed Alex and CT.  Both of them said "Oh they look fine!"  What liars those two are!  I looked like Jessica Rabbit or Bugs Bunny.  One or the other. 

I was blurting out my tale of woe about the munchkin teeth and such when Alex made me feel so much better by saying, "It's just like getting plastic surgery.  You just can't go get a new nose and say that you want your old nose back!" 

Now that really helped.

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

Isn't that romantic?

Just a little kiss between friends.  That's fine.

I remember my first non-family kiss when I was about 10 years old.  A boy kissed me on the lips.  I was pretty much unmoved by the kiss.  In fact, I thought it rather a strange thing for him to do.

When I was 13, I had a boyfriend who was 16, soon to be 17.  Jim had his own car and was going to be a senior at the high school I would attend in the fall as a freshman.

Jim was a tall blond guy and most of the girls I knew were crazy about him.  He had an easy manner and won over my mother almost immediately.  When he asked her if he could take me to the movies, she said yes.  However, her caveat was that we had to walk to the movies as she didn't want me in a car with a boy.  Actually, I think my mother was so delighted that I had stopped being a total tomboy that she would have agreed to letting me date any male no matter what his age.

I thought the guy was okay, but I wasn't enchanted all that much.  Jim was about 6'4" tall and since I was 5'3", I thought we looked sort of stupid together.  As we walked down the street toward the movie theater, Jim told me he had parked his car around the corner and we could take it and Mom would never know.  I told him no.  Either we walked or I would just go back home.  (I didn't lie to my mother.  Okay, yeah, I lied to her but I didn't want to get in the car with this guy.)

We watched the movie and he tried to hold hands during it.  Our hands were sticky from popcorn and it was gross.  We walked back to my house after the show and talked and laughed a little.  I really wasn't sure what the hell he wanted from me.  I was about to find out.

Jim came up on the front porch with me and I got my key out.  All at once he bent over almost in half and kissed me!  No big deal, right?  Excuse me!  Big fat deal.  The guy stuck his tongue in my mouth.  I was paralyzed with horror and disgust!  Excuse me?  I mean, I knew about how babies came to be and all, but nobody had warned me that guys like to stick their tongues in girl's mouths!

Jim was my boyfriend for the next year.  He drove me to school and home from school every day and bought me lunch too.  That made him a pretty good boyfriend.  Of course, we did get to go out in his car eventually and he spent most evenings just trying to get me to "park" somewhere with him.  I really had no interest in French kissing and getting my boobs felt, (not with him anyway). 

I was madly in love with Jim's best friend, Gene.  Gene could stick his tongue in my mouth any time he wanted.  Alas, it was not to be.

Wife For Lease

I finally figured out what I'm really good at!

I am really a good wife.  Last weekend, my girlfriend CT moved in with me and my husband Alex.  CT is one of my oldest and best friends.  She recently sold her condo and left this morning on a planned vacation to Texas to see her family.

Rather than rushing into finding a place to live right after the two week close on her condo, she accepted my invitation to stay with us while she sorted out her living situation.  CT is an architect, an artist, and a truly fun person.  Alex loves her as much as I do.  CT and Alex share a birthday and a love for goofy movies, including sci-fi and slasher films.  I'm at a loss to understand either of them.

CT is a pretty low maintenance woman.  She's staying in the blue bedroom off the parlor because she has allergies and the dogs fur is abundant in Harry's apartment.  Harry's apartment has more space, but CT prefers the pet-less blue room.

I am delighted to have her with us.  CT was amazed that I actually cook a complete dinner every night.  She was astounded when she found out that I pack a lunch for Alex every evening and that I also pack one for her.  I think what really blew her away is that I do laundry (including hers) three times a week. 

Alex and CT get home after work about the same time.  They both come in and I ask them if they'd like a beer or a glass of wine.  They both change into "play clothes" when they get home.  After they change, they sit in the kitchen chatting and watching me cook while they enjoy their pre-dinner libations.

After dinner, I encourage CT to join Alex while he walks the dogs.  When they are out on their stroll, I clean up the dishes and make their lunches and set the coffee pot up to be turned on in the morning. 

CT had a late meeting last night.  She didn't get home until after 8 PM.  Alex and I had beef tacos for dinner, but I made a tuna salad for her because she is not really that keen on red meat.  The tuna salad was served on a bed of lettuce, with chilled asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, hard boiled egg, red onion rings, and capers.  CT commented that she would have to start giving me "wife money" like Alex does.

Actually, I couldn't agree with her more.  This random comment made me realize that I'm sitting on a gold mine.  (Okay, "sitting on" might be a little more racy than I intend  as it might imply something a little more carnal in nature.) 

In any case, I can see a market for this type of service. I'm cheerful and I smell good.  I usually make an effort to look attractive before my spouse comes home from work.  I'm a good cook and a proficient and reliable laundress.  I raise my own herbs to ensure that they are fresh for my family.  I can discuss current affairs with ease.  I take accurate telephone messages.

I'm thinking I could supplement my income by hiring out as a "professional wife".  When I was a working woman, I would have loved to have had me at home.  I would have paid dearly for someone who cooked meals, kept my house clean, and did my laundry, was attractive and smelled nice  and did it all with a smile!  I would have never even considered making sexual demands of someone like me.   (Well, maybe I would have, but I also know that extra service would have cost a lot more money.)

The "professional wife" business is really a good idea, don't you think?

Why Buy The Cow If The Milk Is Free?

Okay, I give up!  Why?

My Mother used this saying to keep me virginal for a long time.  She convinced me that there was an absolute correlation between having unmarried sex and buying a cow.

I think I was 9 the first time she imparted these words of wisdom to me.  I would be 15 before i realized that one thing really had nothing to do with the other.

I don't even like milk, never mind if it's free or not.  And believing that a man would chose a wife so that he no longer had to pay for milk was simply ridiculous.

Mom had a few things wrong, and a few things right.  One thing that was big with my mother was manners.  She wanted her 4 daughters to be polite and to have perfect table manners.  I got the polite part.  I am always polite until it's time to not be polite, but that's another subject all together.

When we were quite young, about twice a month Mom took us on the streetcar to downtown San Francisco for lunch.   We all got very dressed up for the occasion, white gloves, dresses, shiny black patent shoes.  At the time, I was about 7, my younger sister 5.  (The baby was only 3 so she stayed at home with a babysitter.)  We always went someplace "fancy".  Mom wanted to make sure we knew our table manners.  My sister and I looked forward to these outings as much as we looked forward to a dentist visit.

While we were encouraged to get whatever we wanted from the elaborate menus, we were also watched closely for behavior transgressions.  We got a sharp reprimand from Mom if we did not place our napkins on our lap, or if we spoke much above a well modulated whisper.  We were admonished to keep our elbows off the table and to maintain an upright posture while dining.  Further, speaking with one's mouth full simply wasn't done, nor was smacking one's lips while eating.

These hour and a half manners lessons were exhausting to me and my sister.  And we wondered why we didn't just go get burgers at the local drive in restaurant.  However, in time, the outings became much more enjoyable.  We learned not to break the rules and it all worked just fine.

Now this may sound harsh, but I used approximately the same training technique with my own kids.  From a very young age, they both learned what was and wasn't acceptable while dining.  I'm pleased to say that both of my kids have perfect table manners.

Perfect table manners is not really about always using the right spoon.  It not even about not laughing during a meal.  It really seems to me to be more about not hunching over one's plate as if you are afraid it will be stolen from you at any minute.  It's about bringing your food to your mouth while you sit upright, not leaning over the plate to make the distance between food and mouth as short as possible.  It's about not talking with a full mouth.  It's about not smacking your lips while you eat.  These things are really disturbing for me to watch.

It may not be fair, but it bothers me more when women show bad table manners than it does when men do it.  (It also bothers me more to see a woman drunk and obnoxious than it does to see a man similarly impaired.) 

While I still think my mother's free milk and cow reference was absurd, I have to give her kudos for teaching her kids table manners.  I'm sorry more parents don't understand that this is an invaluable life skill.

Although, I may be old now, good manners never go out of style.

Stories From Inside A Real Pickle.

This image shows exactly how my life has been since last Thursday.

Everything was fine.  I was getting ready for some serious "spring cleaning", right after I lollygagged in my bubble bath for an hour that is.

I got out of the bath and grabbed my towel.  I felt the dreaded "WHAP!" in my low back.  Trying not to panic, I set about getting my robe on and slipping on a pair of panties.  Nope, panties were not going to be in the cards.

I get low back "spasms" from time to time and they are never fun, but this was one of those times that I realized that life as I know it had changed for the worse.  When these horrible pains hit, they take my breath away, and my legs, and my ability to remain upright.  Dressed in a big white terrycloth robe, I inched like a worm across the floor to get the the bed in Harry's apartment.  I could not walk, but could pull myself with my arms if I took it slow enough.  Sweat was pouring into my eyes making it hard to see, but that didn't really matter.  I knew getting upright enough to throw myself on to the bed would be tricky or impossible.  Either or.

My life flashed before my eyes.  I really hated thinking that I would be found lying on the floor, with no underpants on in a shabby robe moaning in pain.  It's just not dignified.  I make every effort to stay in bed until 9:00 AM because most people (I read this on the Internet), die early in the morning.  This lying on the floor dead and without panties thing is my worst nightmare.

It took me an hour to drag myself to the bed.  I tried pulling the sides of the mattress to get me up, but my legs weren't working and my back went into horrid spasms with any movement of my legs or back.  Finally, I pushed myself to my feet and threw myself forward onto the mattress.  I think I blacked out for a few minutes from the pain.

Never mind, I was on the bed.  I even managed to throw my body over so I could lie there sunny side up.  I glanced at my watch and saw it was only another 6 hours until my husband would be home.  And both dogs climbed on the bed next to me to give me solace.  Or they were waiting to see if I died and then they would eat me.  Either or.


What are these spasms like, you may ask.  Okay, Ladies, imagine you are giving those last ten pushes before childbirth and you have had no painkillers whatsoever.  Gentlemen, imagine you have an Alien climbing out of your low back and using its sharp teeth to get out.  Then magnify it by 10.  You now have some idea of these spasms.  They can knock you on the floor!  They can spin your head like in that "Exorcist" movie.  That's how bad it is.

When my husband got home, I was bursting to go to the bathroom.  He came in the room and saw my plight and said something like "Oh poor baby!".  Well, poor  baby was trying her hardest to roll from side to side to get over so I could possibly sit up.  I looked like a turtle stuck on it's back. 

I realized how undignified this looked and asked (okay, screamed) at Alex to go get me a pair of panties and put them on me.  He did as I asked and I felt so much more able to cope with this miserable pain and indignity.

It's Tuesday now, I have lived to tell the tale.  Always keep a pair of panties handy.

Who's Your Daddy?

 My single red rose bush has given us two very distinctive types of flowers this year.  In the top photo, you see deep red roses the approximate size of dinner plates.  There are six of them.

In the photo below, there are about 50 small roses, a paler color, and the size of drink coasters.

I really never considered the sex lives of roses, but now I feel I must.  It seems rather apparent to me that some rose has been spreading his or her pollen in a new bush.

These roses are not even the same color.  It would be like trying to pass off a Chinese baby as Irish/German to a suspicious husband.   Or perhaps an Irish/German baby to a suspicious Chinese husband.

Now, I know flowers are the result of some kind of pollen spreading routine.  I don't think actual sex occurs, but I've never watched the roses at night which may be why I don't see anything sexy happening.  There is something going on that isn't exactly kosher.

First of all, this is not a new rose bush.  It's been here for 10 years or so.  This is the first year there has been any suspicion of infidelity on my part.  In every other year, the roses have been pretty much the same old thing.  Just roses.

I'm wondering if I should do something to try and soothe tempers out there.  I mean, having babies that are a lot different from what you expected probably causes some traumatic hurt feelings.

I hope the plants lives through this experiment in infidelity.  Some do, you know.  Some don't. 

How The Internet Damn Near Killed Me Today

I love exotic fruits and vegetables. 

The first time I tried "Dragon Fruit" I was sold on this weird looking cactus family thing with the hot pink flesh. 

When I was at the store last weekend, I saw something very interesting called "Cherimoya".  The sign said to slice the fruit and remove the seed and "enjoy".

I stuck the weird looking fruit in the bowl with bananas and waited until it had softened a bit.  I don't usually eat breakfast, but decided this exotic fruit would be a perfect choice for my lunch.  I carved it in half and then proceeded to eat it with a spoon, after clearing out the obvious seeds. 

It tasted like a vanilla custard and I was delighted.  I was forced to sort of spit out some of the seeds as they were spread willy nilly all through the fruit.  I may have even missed one or two.  No big deal I figured.

I looked up the cherimoya fruit and read about the taste and the origins (the Andes, I think), and thought to myself, "Dang!  I wonder why this isn't more popular!  It's delicious!

I saw a heading called "Cherimoya seeds" and decided to read the article.  I was expecting some quirky little recipe that would turn these seeds into a tasty treat!  I was sort of stunned when the article discussed how DEADLY POISON the seeds were.  In fact, these black seeds are used to make an insecticide.  About that time, I began to perspire and my stomach felt very weird.  I had hot and cold flashes as my kidneys began to fail and my hair and teeth started falling out.  (Okay, I'm lying, but I really was having a hissy fit!)

Now don't get me wrong, I didn't "eat" the seeds.  But a small one might have slipped down my gullet.  I just wasn't sure.  I thought about going to the ER but then realized that it would probably be too late by the time I got there, and they would charge me a $250 co-pay.  Screw that.

I thought long and hard about it and decided to call the "poison control" people and ask them what to do.  I called the number with shaking hands and spoke to a really nice woman who had never heard of Cherimoya.  But she was nice and calm and said, "Let me just look it up and see what's what."  Very calmly, she said, "I think you are okay though." 

She said to me "The good news is that you didn't crush the seeds and eat them."  (Of course, I didn't crush the seeds and eat them!  Who does that?)  She said since the seed or seeds were swallowed intact, they would just work there way through my system.  No problem.

I did feel a lot better though.  I quit sweating and my hands quit shaking and my kidney failure seemed to stop.  My teeth and hair aren't falling out either.

Life is good.  Ignorance is bliss.

Secret Passion

It all started about 40 years ago.  I saw some antique table linens in a store and I fell in love with them.

The lace, the embroidery, the linen quality just inflamed me.  I had to have these napkin!  Some of them were very fragile and almost looked like they would fall apart in my hand.  Oddly, they were stronger than they looked and I still have them to this day.

I not only have them, I use them.  And, I hand launder them and wrap them in special paper to keep them safe.

I had a dinner party several weeks ago that included my 20 year old grandson, Cyrus, and his lovely girlfriend, Alex.  Alex commented on how wonderful the table looked and I pointed out the 100 year old napkins to her.

She said "I'm afraid to use them!" and I told her that was nonsense.  As long as you launder them carefully, they should be fine, I assured her.  Further I told her if she should marry Cyrus, I would give her these precious napkins.  Both Alex and Cyrus choked when I made that comment.  Oh well, she's a nice girl.  He could do a lot worse!

My daughter Sheila, Cyrus's Mother, raised a napkin to her red lipsticked lips and patted gently while grinning her evil grin at me.  I considered putting arsenic in her soup, but thought better of it.  She is my only daughter, so I guess I'm obligated to keep her.

Now, I know that none of you think of me as Hannah Homemaker, and in most cases I'm not.  But there is something about these wonderful old linens that just thrills me.  I think I have about 100 napkins at this point and about 10 tablecloths, all of which are very old.

I find romance in thinking these things adorned the table of other people from a bygone era.  I can't help but daydream about what the people talked about while sitting at the dinner table in the old days.  What did they eat?  Did they take care to rid the fabric of stains?  Did some woman wrap a linen tablecloth with lace on it around her nude body and wander out into the field to meet her lover?  (Well, it's an idea, isn't it?  I can think of worse uses for a tablecloth!)

After use, I carefully soak the linens in very hot water and Restoration (a product to clean antique fabrics) leaving them to soak overnight.   I rinse the cloth in white vinegar and hot water using a wooden spoon to swish the material around.  I only launder the linens when it's nice weather and I can dry them on a table in the back yard, keeping them shaded to keep from over-bleaching the material.

I sprinkle them with distilled water and use a little "sizing" before I iron them.  Ironing these 12" X 12" or 13" X 13" squares of cloth is oddly relaxing to me.  I get in a rhythm and spend hours on the task generally while I watch something really fascinating on television (like "Jersey Shore", or "The Real Housewives").  There is something almost hypnotic about the experience.

The 60" by 120" or 130" tablecloths are another story.  Those big pieces of fabric are torture to iron, particularly when I have to iron the linen with a hot iron and the lace with a cool iron.  But I figure it's punishment for my many sins. It's sort of the Pagan's idea of confession and forgiveness.

And, as you all know, I can be a bad, bad girl.

Remains of the Day

It's been almost a month since my last post.  I've been asking myself "why?". 

The only answer I have is a goofy one.  I've had a sense of foreboding.  Isn't "foreboding" and fabulous and underused word.  It would be simpler to say I've been in a state of anxiety that I may have brought on myself.

I've been worried about North Korea.  I've been worried about this new Asiatic flu that kills everything and everyone it touches and has no cure.  I've been worried about my son going to the Boston Marathon and running.  I've been worried about going to the dentist.   I've been worried about Alex turning 50.  I've been worried about his birthday party and if I could make it wonderful.  I've been worried about climate change.  I've been worried about gun violence.  I've been in a state of "foreboding".

I've made the horrible decision to watch the news in a compulsive and detrimental to my mental health way.  Train wreck after train wreck and I could not look away.  I got hooked on this stuff and it left me speechless, (or at least wordless).

It's over now.

My son ran in the Boston Marathon.  He reached the finish line about 40 minutes before the bombs went off.  I'm glad he's fast.  I'm glad he and his wife Kate were in transit back to their hotel when the explosions went off.  Finally, I'm glad the investigation of this event has been fruitful and that there is one perpetrator  dead and one who will face charges.

The new flu is really nothing for me to worry about.  The press leaves me in a state of anxiety.  If it's not killer bees, it's killer sink holes.  If it's not raging terrorists, it's raging lunatics.  If it's not deadly tsunami's, it's deadly earthquakes or avalanches.

My husband's birthday party went beautifully.  We entertained family and friends and it was a beautiful day!  We had a gorgeous array of Persian food catered and plenty of flowers, beer and wine!  Alex got some lovely cards and gifts from our family and friends.  He was delighted!  Everyone seemed to have a wonderful time.


I will try to remember that the life we have is the only one that we can control.  And I will try to post about the life I have and stop being such a news junkie!

Sick, Faking It, Or Just Lazy? You Be The Judge

Night before last, I awoke at 3 AM with a scratchy throat.

Immediately, I realized that my legs and arms were aching too.  I seemed to feel hot and cold at the same time.  Oh dear! Is this the dreaded flu?

About 5 AM, I drifted back into sleep, but knew I was probably done for.  My friend had the flu recently and it turned into double pneumonia.  I had assumed I was pretty safe because I heard the flu season was over.  Damn! 

I dreamed of a lovely funeral for me and saw all my family and friends crying and saying how sad it was that I was cut down so cruelly, and only slightly past my prime.

I was sort of happy that Alex had gotten me Casablanca lilies in full bloom.  He can be so thoughtful about things like that.

It was really a pretty nice funeral as funerals go.  And the "reception" after was very elegant, thanks to my daughter-in-law's assistance, and my husband's wallet and generosity.

I climbed out of slumber to find that it was almost 9 AM and that I was actually still alive (much to my surprise).  I swallowed a couple of times and my throat was less scratchy than it had been.  Hmm.  All of my parts that are supposed to move seemed to be working so I got out of bed.  I wrapped myself in a pink blanket (pink is a good color if you are sick), and carefully came downstairs.

Alex was working from home yesterday and he was on a conference call.  I went to the kitchen to get my first cup of coffee for the day.  Alex got off the phone and I told him, "I'm sick."  He responded with an appropriate platitude "Poor baby!" and I toddled off to lie down in the next room and turned on television. I also telephoned my friend, Nelson, to tell him that I needed to cancel our lunch date because I was sick.  He was sympathetic and solicitous in equal measures.  I like that in a guy.

Alex came in as I was dozing and watching CNN.  "What do you want to do for lunch?", he asked.  "I don't know, Alex.  I'm sick." He wandered back into the office to get on another conference call.  Zoe jumped up on the bed to cuddle up next to me.  We turned on Dr. Phil.  Neither one of us likes Dr. Phil, but he's great to sleep to.

Alex ran to a local bistro to pick up sandwiches for our lunch.  I did get up eat in the kitchen and then I went back to lie down.  There seemed to be nothing wrong with my appetite.  I wondered when the high fever and chills would start.  Actually, I felt pretty comfortable.  Weird.  This was the least distressing flu I've ever had.

I lay in bed watching one fun show after another all day.  I did get up around dinner time and go into the kitchen.  Alex asked me, "What do you want for dinner?" and I told him, "I don't know.  I'm sick."  He ordered kabobs and a salad from the Afghani place in town that delivers. When dinner arrived, it was quite good!  Alex asked me, "What do you want to drink?".

I asked him to give me a beer.  He looked at me kind of funny and brought me one.  "Should you be drinking beer while you are sick?", he asked.

"I'm better now." I told him.

Mick and Me

Mick and I have a long and complicated history.

In 1970, I adored him.  I saw him in "Performance" (a very strange film) at the San Francisco film festival.  His androgyny thrilled me to my core.  I had liked the Stones, but found that Mick was the most spectacular performer I had ever seen.

Now the truth is, I didn't see all of the movie.  I was dating a young man who was a labor lawyer and we started sort of making out about half way through the film.  I think I closed my eyes and thought of Mick.  Know what I mean?

At some point, Mick married Bianca and I realized he and I would get together one day, but not until he and the gorgeous Latina woman broke up.

In the meantime, I listened to "Some Girls" and waited patiently.  Oh I had husbands and lovers during those years I waited, but I knew for sure, one day it would be up close and personal for Mick and me.  I wasn't wrong.

In 2005, the Rolling Stones came to perform in the San Francisco Bay Area.  My husband got tickets but I dislike crowds so I encouraged him to go with a friend. At the last possible moment, I changed my mind and got two tickets, inviting my friend Andre to join me.  It turned out these last moment tickets were in a just opened area right in front of the stage.

I clutched Andre's arm as we stood in the cool evening fog waiting for the Stones to come on stage.  Andre had thoughtfully brought along a silver flask filled with good scotch for us to sip while we waited.  My heart was pounding in my chest as I waited for Mick to appear.

A roar came up from the sold out crowd and there they were!  The Rolling Stones!  Right in front of me!  It took a moment for me to realize that Mick and changed somewhat drastically since 1970.  It wasn't that he was older.  I had expected that.  Something else nearly knocked me over.

Mick was tiny.  He was about half my size.  He was skinny as a super model.  (Actually, all of the Rolling Stones were tiny men.)  For just a second, our eyes met.  For just a second, I thought "There he is!"

And then I started laughing.  Uh, no way.

The Bane Of My Life

At  almost 13, I could not wait to get my first one.  I pestered my mother until she took me to the Emporium "Foundations Department" and had a sales lady help select my first bra.

I tried on the slightly padded 28 triple A cup and felt like a bona fide sex bomb!  Okay, the bra was cotton and had a tiny bow between the cups, no lace or sexy stuff at all, but it was a bra!  I really couldn't wait to get to gym class to show it off.  (Sadly, I've always felt that way about my underwear.  I know, that's not ladylike, but it is what it is.)

Fast forward 30 years.  Walking in the house after work the only thing on my mind was to get that mutha fugga off of me as soon as the front door closed behind me.  Bras had become my worst enemy.

I wear a 38 D bra.  In other words, I need an underwire to give me support.  While I'm all about the support, is it necessary to have a steel wire to hold me in place?  Bras have to be the most uncomfortable clothing item every made.  The bands are constrictive and they impair my ability to breathe.  The wires dig into my flesh.

I've tried different styles of bras over the years, including some without the underwire.  Unfortunately, my boobs will slip right past the place the underwire should be and be effectively cut in half.  That seriously is not my best look.

I can walk for miles in stiletto shoes and never complain.  I can sit for hours at the salon letting people put weird chemicals on my hair to give me that perfect natural champagne moonlit platinum blond color and never complain.  But I hate bras the same way some people hate spiders or rattlesnakes.  (Actually, I have no real problem with spiders or rattlesnakes.)  I have more hatred for bras than I have for serial killers and that i guess is saying something.

If it was acceptable to do so, I would walk around with my hands securely cupping my bosoms to hold them in place but I'm afraid that might give me the wrong kind of reputation not to mention attention.  I do see some women jiggling along the street untethered by a bra, but it's not really a great look for women in their 60's. 

So be forewarned.  If you come to my house and I expect you, I will put on a bra for your visit.  If you do not tell me you are coming, all bets (and bras) are off.

So Three Ladies Walk Into A Bar - Version 3

I really had no idea what to expect.

Hell, I'd been on the road since 10:00 AM, and didn't arrive in Phoenix until nearly 4 PM.  (Traveling with Zoe our pit bull proved to be a bit challenging.)

Harry was cool.  He lay in the cargo area on his mattress and slept most of the trip.  Zoe walked back and forth on the back seat panting and squealing at the top of her lungs.

"Do you think she needs to pee?", "Do you think she needs to poo?", "Do you think she needs water?".  It seemed we needed to stop at every rest stop area between Indio and Phoenix.  I felt dirty with grime from the road, and we really had not eaten since leaving our hotel in Indio.  I don't "do" breakfast, but Alex does.  Oh wait, I didn't eat the night before either.  We drove from Alameda to Indio in about 7 hours.  By the time we got to Indio, nerves were frayed and restaurants were closed.  Bummer.

We pulled into the Phoenix Biltmore Embassy Suites and it felt like a true oasis in the desert.  Lovely lobby, great suite of rooms, even a little private patio.  Although I was scheduled to meet sister-bloggers, Barbara Schuster and Ann Curry for dinner shortly, I was ravenous.  I sent Alex out asking that he bring back something to eat as quickly as possible.  I jumped in the shower (badly needed), and then applied cute make up, and finger combed my long curly locks of hair.  Okay, that was a lie.  I pushed my hands through my crew cut.  I was goofy tired and starved but at least I looked clean and smelled better than I had before.  Still, I was a bit stressed and dehydrated and hungry.  Did I already mention hungry? I threw on some clothes and my trademark Prada stilettos and a tiny spray of Coco by Chanel, and I was ready for action.

I was just shoving a bite of a turkey sandwich into my mouth when Barbara called from the lobby letting me know she had arrived.

Barbara is a bubbly, beautiful, high energy gal.  She is warm, funny, adventurous and has a 1,000 megawatt smile.  I loved her at first sight.  We went back to our suite and I introduced her to Alex and Zoe and Harry.  Alex was polite, Zoe not so much.  I continued to try and shove more turkey sandwich in my mouth realizing how crude I was being but I couldn't help it.  Barbara pretended not to notice.  (I told you she's adorable.)

Ann telephoned and gave Barbara directions to the bar where we would rendezvous with her.  It was a short ride away.  I left Alex and the pups to their own devices and we took off.

At first glance, I knew Ann was landed gentry.  She was perfect!  Her stylish rich girl hair and diamond studs wowed me!  Never mind that, the woman looked to be made from crushed pearls.  Prettiest darned skin I've ever seen on anybody over the age of 3 months.  (Yes, at one point, I did fondle her ankle.  It was just as smooth and perfect as it looked.)  When Ann speaks, it conjures up visions of mint juleps and manicured lawns on plantations.  She is a magnificent example of pure Southern womanhood.  She bowled me over!

I drank two margaritas in rapid succession.  Damn that tasted good!  Further, we drank some wine with our dinner, and then followed it up with a brandy later.  We talked and laughed for what seemed like hours!  I loved these girls!

When it came time to go back to my hotel, I realized I had never checked to see what our room number was.  (Did I mention I was tipsy by then?  Okay, maybe I was pretty tipsy.)  The lobby would not give me Alex's room number since my last name and his are not the same, but I finally figured our I could call Alex and ask him to let his drunk-assed wife into the room.

The next night, Alex and I had dinner with Barbara and Ann.  It was another fun and lovely evening.

I wish Barbara and Ann lived in my neighborhood! 

By The Time I Get To Phoenix

I love baseball.

I was sitting around vaguely wondering what was peeling my Meyer's lemons at the top of my lemon tree in the backyard.

These lemons are peeled but left perfectly intact.  So what (or who) is peeling them, leaving them on the tree intact except for their peels.  Now I like a vodka tonic once in a while, and a little slice of lemon peel adds a bit of panache to that sort of thing, but frankly I'm more of a gin girl. 

I've wondered about rats, raccoons, opossums, even hummingbirds or bats.  The peels are perfectly removed.  It's even made me think about aliens with a vodka tonic penchant. 

After looking at about 10 perfectly peeled lemons, I came back in the house and did what I always do to calm my mind.  I went on Facebook.  I saw that a friend, Barbara, had left a fascinating message for me.  Barbara is a very interesting girl who has done so many things in her life that I can't even imagine.  She moved to Tanzania in Africa for heaven's sake.  Her blog is pretty amazing (Tanzania 5.0). 

Barbara indicated that she and Ann Currie (a Southern woman with a sly wit and a talent for fabulous photography) were meeting in Phoenix next week to have dinner and she asked if I wanted to join them.  Ann's blog is My Life, a Bit South of Normal, and she has kept me coming back for ages because she's amazingly funny and a bit quirky too.

In any case, I went in and told my husband Alex that I was flying to Phoenix and meeting the girls for dinner on Wednesday.  He was slightly surprised, seeing as I don't leave the house for months at a time.  (Okay, I exaggerate.)  But still, I very seldom leave him for an overnighter.  Alex asked me if I wanted to use his SW Airlines points and I said yes.  He had turned that strange shade of yellow green when I mentioned that I might catch a San Francisco Giants Spring Training game.  (Jealousy is an ugly emotion on anybody.)

Never mind.  We're both going. 

Problem solved.

Now what in the hell is peeling my lemons?

Short Men and Red Roses

Today is Valentine's Day.

Since our marriage in 1989, I have received red roses on Valentine's Day every year from my husband, Alex.  I also get a sweet mushy card and give him one as well.

Okay, Alex always gives me a gift on top of the roses and the card.  Some years it's a piece of jewelry.  Some years it's a nightgown.  Some years it's a ticket to the Monterey Aquarium.  He's a good husband.

I was talking to a woman I know a while ago who was lamenting how tough it was to find a "good man".  She had recently joined Match.com and another dating site and was having no luck at all even after having about 30 "dates" and numerous contacts.  This woman was horrified that the men on these sights lie about their height.  She is about 5'8" tall and wanted to meet a man who was at least 6' tall.

Now, I completely understand caring a whole lot if a man I met told me he was single and he was lying.  I would be horrified if a man told me he was a salesman and neglected to mention that crack cocaine was what he sold.  I might even be upset if a man failed to mention that he was actually a little bit pre-op on the female to male sex change operation.  But height?  Who even asks somebody how tall they are to decide if you want to date them or not.

I know a guy who meets some women on dating sites and he gave me the skinny.  If you put that you are 5'6" tall, nobody wants to date you.  So, he uses 5'9" on his profile just to keep from being completely ignored.  His feeling is that a woman just might like him if she met him and she might not notice the 3" he's adding.

I don't get it.  I've been married to two men who were, well, short.  Alex is a short guy.  I am taller than he is in heels.  (I've also been married to tall people because I'm an equal opportunity bride.)  Maybe it's just me, but I really don't have rigid rules about who I will be attracted to.  (I don't actually "date" now that I'm married, but you get my point.)  When I was dating, I dated men who were old, men who were young, men who were fat and men who were skinny.  I also dated rich men and poor men and healthy men and sick men.  I may or may not have even dated a couple of girls along with the good men and the bad men.

Love is about the person, not the measurement, whether height, weight, salary, or I.Q. 

I'm never joining "Match.com".

Me and My OCD

I look somewhat normal, but don't be fooled.

I have just decided that I suffer from Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.  I guess I've had it for a long time, but never really recognized my symptoms.

I cannot buy enough shoes.  I have to pick up anything that is out of place immediately.  I refuse to get out of bed before 9:00 AM.  As if that's not bad enough, I only appreciate white flowers.  I love flowers, but if they are not white, they are somehow "wrong".  And when something is "wrong", it makes me nervous.

I get on kicks where I read about one subject obsessively.  But that's not all.  I'll get so that I have to research anything about that subject that is mentioned in the book.  This would be great if I was reading about something that would further my education in a practical way, but it never is.    I'm so venal that I pursue knowledge about the harems of the Ottoman Empire.  Now how often does that come up in conversation?

Recently, I've been reading about war.  Not just one war, but everything I can find about all wars.  Got a war in China in the 13th century?  Great, let's read about it.  How about the war on drugs?  Fine!  "The Art Of War"?  Superb.  The Civil War?  Oh yeah.  WEB Griffin has written a lot military fiction, maybe 50 books.  I've read them all.

Before that, I was on a Polygamy kick.  I think I read 27 books about polygamy in a row.  Now, I know I have discussed having "Sister Wives" and I still think it's a good idea.  I want young strong sister wives who like to cook, clean house, do laundry, iron, walk dogs, and clean up dog poop.  I know the polygamous community is not usually all that great for some people, but I think it would work fine for me.  I am not a jealous woman, but I am a lazy one.  I am still hoping that Nicky and Ziva decide to join us one day.  But I'm open to adding one or two more sister wives if they bring the right skill set to the table so to speak.  If she could sew or do a little plumbing, it would be awesome.

With sister wives, I would have much more time to read and buy shoes and arrange white flowers.  

Or maybe I should just get a pill for the OCD.  That might be a lot cheaper.